disappeared, the hall stood empty and they were alone. His mouth inched up even higher, yet he did not rise. Boldly, his hand slipped through the slit in her gown, and moved to her thigh, not asking for permission or approval, taking. The slight touch burned through her veins, searing her blood. His fingers were hard, rough but well schooled in the art of pleasure, stroking her like a cat, arousing a purr that rumbled through her nerves like the Seventh Avenue subway at rush hour. Cleo was pleased, relaxed and most of all, happy.
Men brought her gifts. No man brought her happiness.
For that alone, she would let him live.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“A common peasant,” he answered, continuing the blissful caress, exploring her strong thighs, sliding up her leg, taking an inch higher with each tantalizing stroke.
“Why are you here?” she asked, her voice catching slightly, yet enough for him to notice, damn his impudence. His eyes darkened, and she found his impudence—tempting.
“I beg your indulgence, Excellency.”
“You beg quite nicely,” she offered, and he acknowledged her own impudence with a caress that was no longer flirting, but insolent indeed. Cleo swallowed, her knees weakening, and she hated that he knew her weakness, saw it, felt it inside her. Her body betrayed her, her legs parting, and as his fingers touched her, she could feel her womanly flesh swell, eager to feel his touch again. This time, the queen became his pawn.
Pawn? She would beg for no man, she was Cleopatra, ruler of all she surveyed. She would writhe for no man, she would moan for no man. Ruthlessly, she pushed his hand away. “We are done with playing. Come, before you grace me with your request. You will serve me in earnest. If you please me, perhaps you shall be rewarded.”
He rose. He was a tall man, taller than she, stronger than she, but there was weakness in his eyes because of her. Cleo smiled. He thought he controlled her, he thought he ruled her. He was wrong.
No man messed with Cleo.
Insolently he pulled her into his lap, stealing her throne, setting her body on fire. “You are more than any man can resist.”
“You dare,” she cried, struggling to free herself, ready to call for the guards. Heedless of her protests, he turned her to straddle him and took her lips in a forceful kiss, taking what no man had taken before. Cleo fought even harder, but she could feel his hardened staff pressing against her womb and her flesh was weak, eager, waiting to be consumed.
“I dare,” he whispered against her lips, impaling her on him with one fluid stroke.
Cleo gasped.
He was so large, stallion large, so thick, stretching her body, almost painfully. Surely no man could be so wellendowed. The muscles in her legs were painfully tight, but she would not give him the satisfaction he craved, the satisfaction that she craved until he was the conquered. One inch farther, and she wanted to sigh. His lids shuttered lower, nearly masking his eyes, but not hiding the need.
He took her mouth, his tongue demanding entrance. Weakly she opened her lips to him, opened her body to him, feeling his potency inside her. She had had lovers before, but none such as this, none so…virile.
As he moved within her, his hips slow and forceful, she forgot that he had usurped her throne, she forgot that he was a mere mortal in her realm. She forgot all but this blessed fullness inside her, the void that this man could fill.
There was a ruthlessness inside him, a hunger that equaled her own, and she sensed it, felt it in the steely control of his movements, his body, all that powerful strength. All at her command.
“What is your name?” she asked, because she had to know his name. He would be her favored one. She would appoint him to a position of power, give him a country, or a borough of his own to lord over.
“Mark,” he told her.
“Mark,” she whispered, and their bodies mated together, and with each powerful thrust, she knew she must keep him. He made her happy. “Mark,” she whispered again. “Mark, Mark, Mark…”
AFTER TALKING HIS WAY past two security guards, and bribing another three assistants, Sean O’Sullivan stood in the office of Cleo Hollings, trying to figure out what to do now. This was the one scenario he hadn’t prepared for. The Deputy Mayor of New York City was asleep at her desk and calling for some guy named Mark.
Lucky man.
The Deputy Mayor was hot. Even asleep with a ballpoint pen sticking to her cheek, she was still smoking. Sean checked the clock on her desk, which read almost eight o’clock. Her office would be filling up soon, and with the transit strike in progress, all hands would be needed. This was his one shot, and it wouldn’t be smart to stand here waiting to see how far this dream was going to take her. Not that he wasn’t exceptionally interested.
With a regretful sigh, Sean put a hand on her shoulder and shook gently, the long, red fall of her hair spilling over his fingers. Tempting. Very, very tempting.
Her head snapped up, dark lashes opening, and she stared at Sean with amber eyes that were sleep fogged, and passion fogged still. That must have been some dream. He wanted to be in that dream.
She blinked. “Mark?”
And stone-cold reality. Sean shook his head. “No, not Mark. Sean O’Sullivan.”
He smiled at her, and the passion faded from her expression, the sleep faded, and the amber eyes narrowed dangerously. “Why are you in my office? Are you here about the strike?”
This was the Deputy Mayor of administration that he had heard about. Cleo Hollings, the Wicked Witch of Murray Street. She oversaw the fire department, the police department, the transit workers that were currently giving the city fits, the speechwriters, the sanitation department and the courts. She ruled it all with an iron hand.
Cleo wasn’t the best choice for what Sean needed, but after he’d seen her picture, well, there wasn’t much doubt who’d he go to after that. She had a body that men died for and the mouth that cleaved them in two. She was a challenge and Sean lived for challenges. The more impossible, the happier he was.
“I need to talk to you,” he said.
“Excuse me? There are eight million commuters trying to get to work, and there’s no buses, no subways. This is day four of the strike. Negotiations are restarting in—” she looked at the clock “—oh, no—an hour in midtown. I have to go.” She made an attempt to leave, but Sean put a hand on her arm. Underneath the wool blazer, he felt the steel. A face like a china doll, a body like…no, Sean. Not now.
“Wait,” he managed to say. “Please. I won’t be long. Two minutes tops.”
She stood frozen under his hand, her eyes staring at where he touched her. “You dare,” she whispered.
Okay, that was just weird, but Sean was good at thinking on his feet. “Please. I’m begging here. You’re pretty much my last chance.”
Finally she shook her head, probably working off the last of sleep, the last of her dream. He noted the circles under her eyes. “How much sleep have you had?”
“Not
